


Goodness is Going With You

by whatiwouldnotgive



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bottom America (Hetalia), Fluff, Football | Soccer, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Top England (Hetalia), country names used, this came out more emotional than was originally intended
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 13:09:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20258617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatiwouldnotgive/pseuds/whatiwouldnotgive
Summary: July in France is always beautiful, and today is no different—all cloudless blue sky and delicate flowers blooming and waving flags.  They sit next to each other, arms pressed together, with England practically bouncing in his seat.  The tiny spray of freckles along England’s pale nose stands out as his smile crinkles his nose.  America gazes sidelong at him, “I haven’t seen you like this in forever.”“Like what?”America wants to say happy.Happy, England, you’ve been so down about everything lately that I feel like I can’t remember the last time you didn’t have that furrow in your brows.While celebrating America's Women's World Cup win, America and England find happiness in each other.





	Goodness is Going With You

**Author's Note:**

> Congrats to the US Women's Soccer Team for their World Cup win! Such a bright spot of happiness this summer, and I just couldn't get away without writing America and England celebrating together. I just want them to be soft and in love always.  
I do not own Hetalia, all rights belong to respective owners.  
Title from Hozier's Shrike.

“America!” England calls, waving his arm. 

Turning, America sees England weaving effortlessly through the crowds outside the stadium. The sun is hot on his shoulders while inside his chest, his heart patters on quick and uptempo. With his blonde hair shining in the summer sun, bottle green eyes glittering with excitement, and a starched white jersey that draws eyes, he bounds up to America. Throwing his arms around America, he pulled him in close. 

“Hello, dear,” England says into America’s neck.

America blinks, stunned for a moment, before wrapping his arms around England’s waist, “Hey hun. Ready for today?” he teases. 

England pulls away, grabs his hand, and tugs America into the stadium, “As much as I hate that this is in France, I haven’t been this excited for a footie match in years. You’re girls are going to be well matched.” His grin is sharp and wolfish—one that makes something unknot in America’s chest. Exuberant cheers and pounding music echo in his ears; the flurry of people around them is buoyant and intoxicating. England’s hand twined in his is warm and solid. 

July in France is always beautiful, and today is no different—all cloudless blue sky and delicate flowers blooming and waving flags. They sit next to each other, arms pressed together, with England practically bouncing in his seat. The tiny spray of freckles along England’s pale nose stands out as his smile crinkles his nose. America gazes sidelong at him, “I haven’t seen you like this in forever.” 

“Like what?”

America wants to say  _ happy _ .  _ Happy, England, you’ve been so down about everything lately that I feel like I can’t remember the last time you didn’t have that furrow in your brows. _

He says instead, “Excited. You’re cute. And holding my hand.” He knocks against England’s shoulder. 

England pinks up a little at that. Rolling his eyes, he says, “How long has it been since we’ve gone up against each other like this? This is, well, history in the making, lad!”

America laughs, bright, drowning in the cheers of the crowd as the game kicks off. 

America’s team wins, and he is as stunned as he is exuberant with joy, with something to celebrate for once. He likes seeing the women kiss their wives in the stands; likes seeing the stretching smiles across his people; likes the kiss England places on his cheek with a “Good match.” It feels like something akin to normalcy, something a little left of heaven. Their arms are entwined as they make their way to a pub afterwards to celebrate. A little ways away, the crowd is thinner, and they’re able to settle into a corner—England with his pint, America with his champagne. 

“Can’t believe you’re drinking his  _ wine _ ,” England bemoans. 

“It’s a celebration drink! Besides, I don’t really care for French beer.” 

Scoffing, England says, “You’re just ruined by the piss your people call beer.”  
“Oh _ho_,” America crows, “Are you actually admitting you like France’s beer?”

“I did no such thing!” He’s sputtering, which is always cute, and America takes the opportunity to lace their fingers together and tangle their feet together. He knows he’s gone doe-eyed because England goes quiet, gazing at him over the rim of his glass, “Have I got something on my face?”

Shaking his head, America says, “Nah.” He takes a sip of his wine, lets the bubbles fizz on his tongue. 

“You know,” he says, “the first time I ever tried champagne was in France.” 

England  _ hmms _ . 

“I was visiting with Benjamin Franklin—part of trying to get reinforcements for the war—and the champagne was part of France’s seduction routine.” 

England says, liltingly, knowingly, “Did it work?”

“You know it did.” 

This time, England laughs, “I hate admitting it, but my first time having champagne was also with France as part of his grand seduction scheme.” 

“What war was that?”

“Oh,” England says, his eyes off somewhere down and to the left, “no war. Just a regular visit.”

Outside, a group of young Americans begin singing off-key and drunkenly. A couple argues in rapid-fire French.

America gestures his head, “Come over here.”

England looks at him, baleful, but slides over his chair nonetheless. America wraps an arm around England’s shoulders, holding his glass up to his lips. 

“Here,” he says in a terrible accent they both know terribly well, “take a sip. The bubbles, as the bards say,  _ go to your head _ .”

England huffs a laugh, allows America to feed him a sip of the golden drink. Their eyes lock; America presses a kiss first to England’s temple, then to his cheekbone. For a moment, the world fizzles down to the two of them. Sliding a hand along England’s thigh, America breaths another kiss onto England’s collar. Noses his way behind England’s ear into his hair. 

England takes in a shuddering breath. “I must say dear, you’re not as subtle at this as France was,” he says, voice coming out as a croak. 

“I wasn’t exactly trying for subtle, so that’s good.” 

“Would you like to take this back to my place then, or yours?” 

England snorts. (The question is a lark—they’re both staying in the same hotel.) 

Swallowing the end of his drink, America throws a few euros down on the table, and pulls England out of the pub. They’re both laughing and stumbling, performatively more drunk than either of them really are. If America is being honest, he might say they’re drunk on each other, on the love of their people, and, for once, just being two men celebrating a soccer game. The cab to the hotel is swift. America finds it difficult keeping his hands to himself. They’re both young and giddy, resembling their people dancing along France’s streets in their numbered jerseys. 

Inside their room, England pushes him up against the door, knee between his legs, and kisses him, thorough and messy. America comes up gasping for air, wrapping his arms tight around England’s waist. England’s hands twine in America’s hair, mussing and tugging as they roll forward and push and pull to get closer. Heat twists around in his stomach; nobody’s able to wind him as fast as England can. America traces the lines of England’s chest, tucked underneath the slippery fabric of his shirt, feeling the scratch of hair along his belly. England mouths along America’s jaw, biting where his neck and shoulder meet.

Pulling his shirt off, he urges England’s also up and off. The sight of miles of bare skin, makes America’s knees go weak. England helps him by hooking fingers into America’s belt loops, tugging him across the room, and shoving him down onto the bed. Falling down onto his knees, England kisses along the seam of America’s jeans. Huffing a moan, America fists the bedsheets. Fiddling with the button of America’s jeans, England mouths along the length of America’s cock where it presses hot and damp against the denim.

Head spinning, America chokes out, “You’re gorgeous. God.” He slips a hand into England’s hair, tugging just enough to make England whine under his breath. “You don’t have to,” he whispers. 

“Well, got to give you something for winning,” England says. His fingers are long and slender and aristocratic; hands that appear flawless, but, America knows, know the handle of a pistol better than nearly anything and once stretched around the world. They drag America’s pants off, discarding them off to the side before slipping off America’s boxers too. His cock, dribbling against his abs, aches flushed and red. England kisses the inside of America’ thighs, breath hot and so  _ close _ .

England’s cheek is soft when he takes America in his mouth. His tongue curls up around the head, licks along the slit, smearing the precome along the plush jut of his lips. His eyes, now fallen shut, flutter as he slides his head along America’s length. Gripping America’s hips, England sucks the tip, humming a bit just to feel America squirm. 

“ _ Oh God—I, _ ” America chokes out. Trembling, his toes curl, knees juttering up and thighs tense around England’s head. 

England slips further down and  _ swallows _ , the flutter of his throat making waves of heat roll up through America’s gut. Throwing his legs over England’s shoulders, he arches up into England’s wandering grip and plush mouth. 

He says, voice an embarrassing croak, “Babe, you’re so good.” He’s panting, chest heaving with effort while England pulls off for a moment to dig around his bag for lube. England, humming under his breath, makes a triumphant little noise when he finds the bottle. Biting at the tender hollow of his hip, England sucks a blooming mark there, another at the juncture of his pelvis and thigh, a final one at the delicate skin of his inner thigh. Nails scratching delicious curls of pain up his torso, America’s head falls back, hair damp with sweat. 

“ _ Ah _ ,” he moans when England coaxes one—  _ two _ — fingers inside him, crooking them up. Voice cracking like the boy he longer is (and hasn’t been for a long time), he says, “Please.  _ Please _ .” 

England eyes shine, and, as it’s accompanied by the sight of England—red with slick shining on his lips—makes something twist in his guts. Wrapping his free hand around the base of America’s cock, he uses the edges of his teeth to tease. His fingers, now three, are moving inside him, slowly, too slowly, America thinks. He spreads them, and America rocks his hips down onto them. England spreads him wide, pushes and twists his wrist. The pressure, cool and wet, has him quivering with effort. England’s free hand reaches up, twists a nipple at the same time he begins fucking his fingers forward and up. 

“Get up here and fuck me,” America says, gasping and caught between the pleasure and embarrassment at being so split open for England. 

England presses his fingers up into America, hard and unyielding in response. The pleasure rockets up through this belly sharp, shooting sparks along his limbs. Shuddering, America whines, warbling. He pulls at England’s hair with one hand, the other digging marks into England’s shoulder, unable to choose between pulling away and rocking down for more. 

After England slips his fingers out, America reaches down, and they both clumsily fumble to get England’s trousers off. England, in a rare display of his strength, hauls America further up the bed, insinuating himself between his legs. Tracing the tips of his fingers along America’s legs, America shivers. America wraps them around his England’s waist, who grabs his own cock, and taps against America’s hole before pushing in. America’s eyes squeeze shut as heat knifes up through him, jaw falling open, breath escaping him in a rush.

“That’s it,” America says, “you’re always so good at this. Treat me right.” 

England begins moving in gentle circles at first. He leans down, stretching America’ hips deliciously. Biting his lip, America cants his pelvis up, rubbing his leaking dick against England’s stomach, feeling the scratch of hair against the sensitive skin. 

“It almost seems,  _ hah _ , that this should be the other way around. Since I won and all,” America manages out, voice shaking and ending on a moan since England thrust into with a particularly vindictive motion. 

“Oh hush, darling,” England says, holding America’s wrists down above his head. The drag of his dick inside is heavy and hot, and makes America shiver at the fullness. They move together like that, a tidal force of  _ push-pull-in-out _ . Their mouths meet, locked together as they have been since that first fated meeting so many years ago. Around them, America feels the world narrow down to the two of them right there. On the bed, linked together, their time together and their time not yet lived captured in this moment where they are neither nation nor human but two souls entwined. 

When America comes, he feels it deep in his bones: a jagged thing of lightning through his core. Come spills between their bellies where they’re pressed together, joined at their most vulnerable points. England buries his face in America’s neck, bites at the tender skin, and worries it between his teeth as he continues thrusting and rides America through it. Cooing all sorts of tender, lovely things they can’t seem to say to each other except in their most private moments together like,  _ Sweetheart I love you so much _ , and  _ So beautiful, America, bloody gorgeous love _ , and  _ Wish we could stay like this forever _ . Tears prick at his eyes; his hands ache to have England’s in them. 

When England comes, it’s quiet, on a single exhalation of breath. America, long liquefied into the spread of blankets and pillows, watches because England is always so beautiful when he comes: chest and cheeks flushed red, arms tense with effort, brows knit in concentration. Lashes smudged and face lax, he is infinitely beautiful—a creature America can’t fathom is his. 

They lay together, catching their breath in the darkness of the room. Lacing their fingers together, England kisses America’s cheek, whispers in his ear, “I love more than I could speak.” England buries his face in America’s shoulder. 

Sleepy eyed and mind hazy, America replies, “I love you too.” Outside, the patter of their people matches the beating of their hearts, and the beat of society marches on. 


End file.
